


Fighting Blind

by RanowaOldStuff (Ranowa)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Roy Mustang, Disability, F/M, Friendship, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/RanowaOldStuff
Summary: The first time the colonel showed up with a black eye, Team Mustang didn't question him. The second time, they were unsure, and the third time, they start following him to find out what he's hiding.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Fighting Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2016 on ffn, now brushed up a bit for cross-posting. Enjoy! <3

At the opening creak of the door, Jean didn't look up from the file on his desk, simply adding his call of good morning up with the chorus echoing around the room. "Happy Monday, you two," he drawled, still without raising his eyes. Because of course it was Hawkeye and the colonel; everyone else was already here, and every day since Mustang had returned to work, he'd come in with Hawkeye. Jean clicked his pen and signed the weapons' request form sitting on his desk before looking up with what was meant to be a passing glance to grin at the both of them.

His grin fell like a faceplant, and his jaw dropped.

"U-um... Colonel?"

"Yes, Havoc?" Mustang didn't turn his head towards him, instead allowing Hawkeye to continue guiding him to his desk, hand on his arm and pace as slow as their fearless leader needed it. But even from the less than ideal perspective, Jean could still see what had first attracted his attention, and was now making everybody else in the room stare.

His left eye was bruised purple and badly swollen, enough so that even if he wasn't blind, he wouldn't have been able to see through it. The butterfly bandage over his brow was glaring as well and called attention to the short cut rather than hiding it-- and Jean had seen enough fist fights in his academy days to recognize the black eye for what it was.

Someone had punched the colonel in the face.

Jean swallowed nervously and glanced towards the supply closet, having a sudden premonition of Mustang having stuffed an incinerated corpse beneath a box of staplers.

"Sir..." Breda stammered uncertainly, obviously unsure how to broach the subject as well. "Uh-- do you have something you want to tell us?"

Mustang scowled at them all when Hawkeye turned him around at his desk, pulling out his chair and reaching to help him sit. "Speak clearly!" he barked, unwarranted irritation shuddering in his voice and head twitching with the urge to look around the room. The fingers clenched around his lieutenant's hand loosened slightly, though even then he did not let go, and the sight that once would've made him wolf whistle now had Jean looking away in regret and guilt.

He was not about to bite at the colonel's dangerous bait, however, and searched throughout the room for someone who would. Mustang had been extremely on edge ever since returning to active duty two weeks previously, irascible at best and hands fidgeting to snap at worst. He wasn't about to be the first one to push him too far and get burnt to a crisp.

Breda took one look at him and glared, raising his hand in an obscene gesture. Fuery balked and withered, shaking his head in absolute refusal to put himself at risk. All eyes turned to Falman.

The warrant officer huffed in betrayal, glaring at them all. But the colonel was impatient, and, while clearly still reluctant, Falman was forced to turn and visibly prepared himself to step into the literal line of fire. "Sir... you have a black eye."

Mustang's scowl deepened, and, withering, Jean looked instead towards Hawkeye, expecting her to explain when he did not. She would know, after all. She always did.

Hawkeye surprised him, however, by suddenly taking a swift step back, hand slipping out of the colonel's and head down. She moved quickly to her desk and immediately buried herself in her work, head still bowed, and Jean glanced between the two of them, eyebrow raised. _Lover's quarrel? If it was anyone but them, maybe, but Hawkeye wouldn't raise a hand against him, and Mustang would die before he hit her..._

With the whole room waiting expectantly, the colonel could hardly simply not explain, and at length Mustang cleared his throat, hand fumbling for his pen. "Tripped," he muttered succinctly, seemingly eager to put the conversation behind him. "Anything else?"

Jean swallowed, sharing a nervous look with the others. Everyone but Hawkeye, who was still staring firmly at her desk. Tripped. Of course. Stupid of him to even ask; the colonel had probably had no shortage of such mishaps as he tried to acclimate to losing his sight. Calling attention to it was just cruel. "Ah, no, sir," he said quickly, speaking for them all, and immediately buried himself back into his work.

"Good," Mustang muttered, and that was the end of it.

* * *

The bruise faded quickly, and was not mentioned by anyone again, allowing the colonel to save face, and his pride. Jean forgot about it entirely soon after, and Team Mustang slowly continued to learn and shift into a new normal.

It was a bit over two weeks later when the scene repeated itself. To an extent.

Jean arrived first, with Mustang and Hawkeye coming in together just as he was making the coffee. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at the sight. Mustang was leading the way rather than the other way around, Hawkeye close enough to catch him if he should fall but the colonel finally walking on his own, aided only by the slim cane that twitched from right to left to search for obstacles in his past. "Morning, you two!" he called, waving to Hawkeye, who nodded back at him. Then he started, remembering the leave request on his desk and hurried to grab it. "Oh, Colonel-- requesting the day off next Thursday! My dear Rebecca is coming into town, and, well, no offense, but I greatly prefer her company to this sorry lot's." He winked at Mustang, then faltered, remembering he was unable to see it.

"Well, I should hope so," Mustang muttered, oblivious to the gesture and sitting at his desk without Hawkeye's assistance. "I'm the only charmer in this office."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can charm the skirt off a log. A miniskirt, sir."

"...A log?"

He shrugged irritably. "Whatever. It's early and I'm tired. Whatever. Just a turn of phrase-- sir..." He blinked, tilting his head to the side to stare at the colonel. It was hard to tell from this angle, but it looked like... "Shit, sir, your ear is bleeding!"

It wasn't much, but there was a definite trickle of red coming from his right ear, wet and fresh and slowly dripping to trail down his neck. Mustang blinked once, staring blankly before he coughed and raised a hand to feel it. His eyes widened when his fingers actually felt the blood and he frowned, not seeming overly concerned or surprised. He simply yanked a tissue up from a desk drawer and balled it up firmly by his ear, frowning again. "Thank you for telling me, Havoc."

Jean gaped. That was _it?_ "Colonel, you sure you okay? Did you hit your head recently?" He frowned, looking him over closely. "Do you need to see a doc-"

"I'm _fine,"_ he growled out, hand twitching in sheer annoyance. "Just an unfortunate incidence of head meeting desk corner. The introductory handshake was quite painful, but Knox already looked at me last night. I'm fine." He raised his free hand, palm up, fingers outstretched. "The leave request, Havoc?"

Jean looked at him doubtfully, then glanced back at Hawkeye, already prepared to follow her lead on this. However, she did not appear to be paying the slightest attention to the conversation, staring flatly down at the paperwork on her desk without seeming inclined to say a single word. He looked between the two of them again, utterly lost, then just shook his head and gave up. "Thank you, sir," he muttered, handing him the form in his hand and waiting while Mustang signed it.

Back at his desk, Jean glanced curiously again towards the lieutenant across from him. He frowned, looking closer, squinting to see the tiny cut over her lip. With a surreptitious glance towards the Colonel, he reached forward and tapped her desk for attention. When her eyes found his, he reached up and touched the skin above his own lip, silently mouthing the question.

Hawkeye just blinked at him, shook her head, and went back to work.

* * *

The third time Mustang showed his face injured at work, it was after a mission gone wrong, and he wasn't the only one hurt. Yes, a colonel doing field work was unusual; a blind colonel doing so was completely unprecedented-- but, when terrorists struck Mustang's foster mother's bar the same night the team was out celebrating a round of post-Promised Day promotions, of course they were going to get involved. In fact, it had been Mustang who'd thrown the first punch.

It had been a rough and exhilarating scrap, bullets flying and when ammo ran out fists coming out as well. Jean had ended up on the floor, taking on three at once, and he still wasn't sure whether he imagined it or not, but he'd _thought_ he'd seen Mustang take on at least a few, too. Not by accident, either; he'd punched once as if he'd somehow just _known_ where to strike, and three others had been victims of his cane.

It would've been nice if it was true, but, it just wasn't possible. Jean simply told himself it had been mere wishful thinking turned misconception, in-between blows to the head and the reloading of his gun.

No matter what Mustang had or hadn't done, the terrorists hadn't been expecting a couple of war veterans to be there to stop their plan in its tracks, and the matter had been resolved relatively quickly. Of course, they'd also been outnumbered five to one, and a little drunk-- the whole unit was bruised and battered. Breda was now in the hospital after being shot while Fuery was at home with a concussion, leaving Team Mustang down two men and none of the remaining in tip top condition. Falman's eye was a nasty and swollen testament to a boot to the head, Hawkeye's arm was in a sling and she could barely write; Mustang hobbled along with a stubborn limp, and Jean, for his part, had thrown a muscle in his back.

When the haggard bunch had managed to drag themselves into work the next morning, every one of them nursing headaches and ill will, Mustang had tsked once, clicked his pen twice, then simply declared they were all going to take a half day. "In our state, I think we'll do Amestris more harm than good if I try to evaluate one more treaty agreement," he'd said sourly, and no one, Jean included, had had any wish to protest. Half day off was a half day off: a blessing from heaven itself.

When lunch finally rolled around, it was the signal for them all to clear out and go home. Jean gleefully trailed Mustang to the elevators, already imagining the massage waiting for him at home from his lovely Rebecca. "Thanks again for the day off, Boss!" he exclaimed, inclining his head towards the recently promoted general. "And, er, again, pass along my apologies to Madam Christmas." He flushed sheepishly. "I wasn't aiming to break the table, promise..."

Mustang laughed quietly. "Havoc, if the Madam was mad at you, trust me, you'd know it. You don't need to apologize." He raised a hand absentmindedly, rubbing at the short cut along his jawline.

Jean grinned as well, opening his mouth to joke about the general probably knowing from personal experience.

Then, he froze.

That cut on his jaw.

It was small, innocuous; compared to the bruises they all had, it was barely even worth noticing.

But, somehow, Jean noticed it.

Because he hadn't had that cut the night before.

Jean stared at it, his mind racing. He hadn't had that cut after the brawl in the bar. He most definitely _hadn't._ And hell, he didn't even know why it bothered him so much; it was small enough it could've been from shaving-- it could've meant nothing.

But, Jean couldn't shake the feeling that right now, that nothing was actually something.

_First he had that black eye... then, he had a head injury... and now, this..._

"Hey, sir," he probed carefully. "That cut on your face-- how'd you get that, again?"

Mustang tilted his head to the side, utterly impassive and unflappable. "How exactly do you think, Havoc? I imagine it was a punch from last night, don't you?"

_Caught him._

Mustang had had an excuse for each occasion he'd shown up to work injured. Each injury had been minor enough not to cause worry, and the interim between each had been long enough so as not to arouse suspicion. Each time Hawkeye had either pretended not to take notice or said nothing about it, putting them at ease because she, more than anyone, would know if there was something to worry about. Even now, when he glanced back at her, it was to see her gazing stubbornly at the ground, again not looking at either one of them, her features strained with tension. Each excuse had also been believable... but this time, Jean knew for a fact that he was lying.

Taken all together...

There _was_ something going on. Something that Hawkeye knew about, and something the two were deliberately keeping from them.

When the elevator reached the first floor, he lingered behind, watching as Hawkeye and Mustang left together. The moment they had turned the corner, he sprang on Falman.

If something was going on with the general, then it was up to them to figure it out together.

* * *

A late night meeting in Breda's hospital room was convened, and once the four of them had all arrived, Jean told them everything.

Breda, naturally, thought he was out of his mind.

"Just exactly are you proposing?" he groused, looking rather irritated that _this_ was what was stopping him from sleeping. "Mustang's getting beat up on his way to work and is just too ashamed to say anything?"

He scowled back at him. "Did I say that? I'm not pretending to know what's going on-- but _something_ is! Too many things don't add up! Just once I'd be fine with, but _three_ times? Come on, Breda!"

"Er..." Fuery spoke up from his corner, muted, barely more than a defeated squeak. "Four, actually."

Jean blinked. The soldier now looked just simply miserable, head down and expression mired with sudden guilt. "What do you mean, four?"

"It was on one of your days off," he said, voice even more downtrodden than his visage, and he groaned. "He showed up with his arm in a sling. Hawkeye and I were the only ones to beat him there, but it was his dominant arm, and Hawkeye made him go home; said he wouldn't be able to read or even sign his name and he would do himself more good if he just took the day and rested. She told me he'd ran into a doorframe and hurt his shoulder but that he was embarrassed; that I shouldn't say anything to you guys. I... I didn't think anything of it at the time..."

Jean stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise. There was a _fourth_ time?

Damn it, they were going to start following the colonel _now_ until they figured out what the hell was going on.

"Oi, both of you!" Breda called, snapping his fingers. "In case you forgot, Mustang's kinda blind now. You know. He can't see?" He waved a hand in front of his own face to illustrate. "I'll tell you what's going on. He's walking into things. He's tripping. Hell, it wasn't too long ago I saw him try just to reach the telegraph without his cane and ending up smacking his face into a wall. But he doesn't want to admit to that, who _would_ , and so he's lied to us. Hawkeye knows, because of _course_ she knows; she didn't let him out of her sight until she was confident he could be left alone! But there's _nothing_ going on. You know what you'd see if you followed him, Jean?" He waited for a moment, stare drilling into his own without wavering even once. "You'd see what you don't want to, and what he doesn't want us to see, either. You'd see him struggling because of his eyesight. I won't tell the general what you guys are up to, but I'm not about to take part in it, either. Spy on him if you want. You won't find anything except for that."

Breda's words him settled like a punch to the gut. Slowly, trying in vain to hide how much they had really affected him, Jean moved backwards to drop limply and sit.

He absolutely _hated_ that tiny, slim chance that Breda was right.

 _Hated_ it with every fiber of his being.

He didn't believe it, because he didn't want to believe it. Had never wanted to believe that Mustang, even months after the robbery of his sight, was still fighting to adjust-- even though he knew without a doubt that he was. He could see it in the lack of confidence that haunted his every step whenever he went somewhere unfamiliar, the way he'd twitch and frown a little whenever Hawkeye had to read him a telegram that he could no longer see himself, in the minuscule way his face fell when he woke after napping at his desk and opened his eyes to see only darkness... the signs were everywhere.

If only he would chose to face them.

But he didn't want to, because the general's blindness was his fault.

Pain twinged down his spine and he looked away, rubbing a hand over his face. He remembered back to that day months ago, euphoria spinning on its head and leaving him stuck in a mire of guilt-induced misery when Marcoh had reluctantly told him that the stone's energy had been entirely used on his legs. That Mustang, in his insistence to see his subordinate walk again, had just sacrificed the only chance he'd ever have to see.

He'd wanted to throw up. He'd wanted to scream. He'd wanted to throw glass and watch it shatter; he'd wanted to smack the doctor across the face and _make_ him make it work.

He'd wanted to never see Mustang again.

Never replace the image in his head of a perpetually idealistic, hopeful colonel with one who now had to face the reality that he was permanently blind.

But no matter what he had wanted, his _need_ to be the one to tell him had won out. It was still, to this day, the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

He still remembered very well the sad, broken way the then colonel had smiled, the edges brittle, so very close to falling apart, and the quiet murmur of _You can stop dreaming of a miniskirt army, Havoc... doesn't seem I'll be able to be Fuhrer anymore._

Those had been some very bad, very hard days.

But, damn it, he'd been getting _better._ It had been an absolute fight to get him to even return to work at all, but once he had he'd began to improve miles. He'd gotten so much better it was almost unbelievable, and Jean just did not want to admit he was still struggling in the shadows.

He already felt guilty enough, damn it.

Jean looked to his friend again, not faltering before the iron certainty and expectancy he found waiting for him there. "Just humor me on this one, Breda. I don't have anything to say to convince you, but... I feel like something's wrong."

"No, you don't. You just don't want it to be because he's blind, Jean."

"Yeah, you're right, Breda. And? If we start watching him and I see what you're talking about, then-- then, fine, I'll concede. But right now, I just... he saved me, back when I was first paralyzed. I was going to give up, but he wouldn't let me." He shook his head, fists clenching tight. "Then he saved me again with the stone. It's my fault he's like this in the first place and I- on the slim chance that you're wrong... I want to help him all that I can, Breda."

Breda did not break his gaze or retort immediately, either, the look in his eyes serious and appraising. In the end, it hardly actually mattered. Jean was going to go through with this, in the end, no matter what his fellow lieutenant said.

But he would rather proceed as a united front instead of a solitary solider.

At last, Breda just sighed, raising a hand to rub his eyes. "Falman? You got an input here?"

The previously silent warrant officer started from his spot near the door, clearly not expecting to be called on. "I... think it likely that you're correct, Breda," he said at length, eyes unreadable. "But I also think you're right, Havoc. We should follow him, just to be safe."

Breda sighed again, spreading his hands in defeat. "I appear to be outnumbered, then. You guys want to do some stakeouts? All right, then. I'll go for it, too."

Fuery grinned. "Democracy, eh? The general'd like it."

Jean smiled as well. _Damn straight he would._

Cracking a yawn, he rose at last with a pointed glance to the clock and began to backpedal towards the door. "Let's continue this tomorrow, then. It's late now, but I've still got some hope for a massage if I get my sore ass home in time."

"Utterly shameless," Falman muttered under his breath, grinning, as he headed towards the door as well. He exited first, and Jean stood back to let Fuery go as well, aiming to bring up the rear.

Breda stopped him when he was the last one remaining in his room.

"Oi, Jean."

He stilled, hand already on the knob. By the sound of his voice, this wasn't going to be something he would be particularly enjoy hearing.

"Mustang knew what he was risking, letting you use the stone first. The homonculi are the ones who took his eyesight in the first place, and then he decided your legs were more important than his eyes. Even if you had tried to refuse, he still would've ordered Marcoh to use it on you first, anyway. ...None of this is your fault."

Jean squared his jaw, and marched out the door. 

* * *

Surveillance was decided upon quickly, and shifts were drawn out. Jean drew the short straw on that one, taking the first batch of graveyard shifts to trail their general. It would be utterly miserable, he could already tell, and from the first time he'd stumbled into work running on zero hours of sleep, he had already begun to regret the entire idea.

After a full week of seeing absolutely nothing except Mustang sleep while he missed out, Jean had been ready to call it quits all together.

It was guilt that stopped him.

In the end, it took three weeks for the general to be caught in the act. Three impossibly long, horrifically sleep deprived weeks.

Three weeks, for Jean's watch to see Mustang not walk home or to Madam Christmas's bar, but turn off the beaten path from work, and head off to parts unknown instead.

Parts unknown could only mean the end of surveillance was soon to come-- or, for god's sake, at least a development. And, grinning ear to ear, Jean followed behind the general with a spring in his step, watching eagerly as the man wound through the unfamiliar streets without hesitation. He had to have been this way before, and many times. And that could only be good news.

At last, Mustang reached his destination.

A gym.

A dammed gym.

Jean stared, completely nonplussed. A gym? That was _it?_ What the hell could the general do at a _gym?_

But, of course, there was also a gym far closer to headquarters... a gym that all military personnel could use for free. Why, then, would Mustang have trekked all the way out here?

Jean lingered for a few minutes outside, even though it was probably unnecessary. Once he was sure it had been long enough for him to remain unnoticed, he moved forward to follow the general inside, arms folded and gaze already searching inquisitively. When he didn't see his target in plain view, he turned for the front desk instead, shifting just a little so his military pistol was visible on his hip. "Sir? Roy Mustang. What way did he just go?"

The burly figure took one look at his gun and scowled, rolling his eyes. "Put that shit away, boy. Half the people who come in here are packing."

It was Jean's turn to frown, and he stopped just short of pulling out his military ID. Again, the question of why Mustang would go to this seedy, suspicious place rather than the military's gym was raised. "Roy Mustang," he pressed, tapping his finger on the desk.

The man rolled his eyes again and pointed over his shoulder, not seeming to really care much that he was just giving direction to an important military figure to an unidentified, armed intruder. "Yeah, yeah, Roy's back there with his spitfire, as usual. Just don't rat me out; not a huge fan of incineration, you know?"

Jean stopped midway through a grim thank you, eyebrows raising past his hairline. _"Roy?"_ he quoted, unlit cigarette in peril of falling out of his open mouth. "Just how often does he come here?"

The man shrugged. "Three times a week at least. Haven't seen him in a while, though; something about being injured and taking it easy." He shrugged again and went back to ignoring him, fingers playing with a cigarette.

Three times a week? And his usual _spitfire_ \-- could only be Hawkeye!

Jean grinned.

_End of surveillance, here I come!_

He quickly followed the man's directions, jogging past weight equipment eagerly in search of the general and his spitfire. He swiftly reached the door and, thanking his lucky stars that it had a window he could look through, he shifted to observe just what Mustang and Hawkeye were doing.

What he saw left him dumbfounded.

They were fighting.

The pair was _fist fighting_ each other.

Mustang was on the offensive, fists swinging with the control of an obvious spar but with a precision that shocked him. Hawkeye was sticking mostly to dodging and blocking but wasn't above a few kicks of her own. The first time her foot came out Jean gasped in alarm and reached forward helplessly, because there was no way Mustang could dodge what he could not see-- but then he _did._ He sidestepped it with ease, shifting out of the way so naturally it looked like a dance. A scripted dance.

_What the hell is going on?_

The door was propped open already, and Jean pushed it open a little further to continue to stare, and to eavesdrop. If it had been anyone else he would've intervened- who the hell tried to beat up a _blind_ man?!- but this was Mustang and Hawkeye. There had to be a good reason.

And, he reasoned, while they weren't talking while they sparred, they also couldn't spar forever.

Sure enough, the match was ended rather quickly in a toss to the floor by Hawkeye. Seeing Hawkeye take Mustang by the arm, sidestep the retaliation, and bring him down to his back left him agape, and he stared in absolute shock when her next step wasn't to apologize frantically and ensure his well being. She simply took a few steps back, breathing hard, and grinned. "That's one for me, sir."

Breathing hard himself, Mustang just nodded back without a single comment about a strike to a superior officer. "Yes, it is. Good work." He stayed down for several moments, panting, then grunted and pushed himself upright, frowning."We're both a little off, though; it's been a while. Maybe we should cut it short for tonight."

Hawkeye nodded as well and sat down on the mat, reaching past Jean's point of view to go after a bottle of water. "Yes, sir, that would be wise." She took a gulp, then sat back again and passed another water the general's way.

Mustang drank some as well, opening eyes that had been, until now, shut. "I have improved, though. As we saw, at Madam Christmas's bar. Thank you for that, Riza."

Jean's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. _Riza?!_

"You're welcome, sir. You have improved drastically." A moment later, Hawkeye smiled softly, slipping out of military discipline and into something less formal; more intimate. "Though you shouldn't need me to confirm that for you. Remember when you first approached me, sir?"

Mustang barked out a sour laugh, his eyes dull and lifeless. "Of course. You laid me out on my back in one blow. Every time. ...For days."

"Yes, I did, sir." Her smile faded and she looked towards the ground, swallowing. "Though, it was very difficult then to not take it easy on you. When you first ordered me to hit you, I..." She shook her head. The look on her face told Jean exactly how she had taken such an order. 

Mustang nodded back. "Yes. It was an unorthodox order, and in my condition then I can only imagine your hesitation. Thank you very much for following it anyway, Riza." He paused again, smiling just a little, then reached out a hand. Hawkeye's fingers went to it without hesitation, and again Jean found himself stunned.

"I may never be able to fight on my own, Riza," he said at length, voice just a tad wistful. "God knows I can't use my alchemy without you telling me where to aim, and don't even think about handing me a gun. But... I'm not helpless." He broke off for a moment, the admission clearly hard for him to make. "Not... not anymore."

Hawkeye tsked loudly at him, obviously sharing Jean's opinion on the statement. "You were never helpless, sir. Or in danger, for that matter."

"Yes, yes," he sighed, waving her off dismissively. "Say what you will, Riza, but I was quite a pathetic sight, after the Promised Day. I was pathetically helpless. I couldn't have reclaimed any sense of independence that way, even if I'd wanted to." He grinned cheekily, though by her sad stare, Hawkeye seemed unable to share his blasé attitude about remembering him in such a state. Jean couldn't blame her.

Mustang spoke again, hand waving in an approximation of a gesture. "It is all symbolic, anyway. I'll never be sent to war again, and when I make Fuhrer-- well, there's no need for the Fuhrer to fight. Just his chess pieces, who will fight for him."

Hawkeye nodded once, without any hesitation whatsoever. "All the way to hell, sir."

Mustang nodded as well, as if the response was simply expected. "Yes. Like I say, it is all symbolic. When we first started this, well... the idea of a blind Fuhrer was..." He shut his eyes for a moment, fists clenching over the floor.

Jean looked away as well, unable to stop himself from recalling the dark period after the Promised Day. When Mustang had first returned to work, he'd been angry and sullen, not even trying to learn how to live with his new disability, instead ordering Hawkeye in an angry snap to read all his reports for him and never daring to move if her hand wasn't on his arm. Jean hadn't needed to ask, then, to know that he had still believed a blind Fuhrer was impossible.

But as the weeks had passed, and Mustang had apparently began to work with his lieutenant at night-- he'd gotten better.

Jean remembered being surprised at the time. Just how quickly Mustang had learned Braille and managed to start walking on his own... just how quickly his ever present scowl had begun to fade... just how quickly he'd managed to smile again.

It had been quick, he realized with a grin, because Hawkeye had been spurring him on from the shadows.

"General," Hawkeye said quietly, as if trying to bring them all out of a memory of a darker time. Jean jumped, and he wasn't sure if he imagined it, but it seemed Mustang had as well.

"Erm, yes," he coughed, far more sedate than before. "My point is, I don't think Fuhrer is impossible for me anymore. And that's thanks to you, Riza. You made me keep on trying and climbing. Even if you thought I was insane, in the beginning."

"I still think you're insane a lot of the time, sir."

Mustang huffed. "I could have you up on insubordination for that comment, you know."

"Yes, sir." Hawkeye looked like she was trying very hard now not to laugh aloud, and Jean bit back a snicker. Ed may not have been around much anymore to rankle Mustang, but that didn't mean they couldn't still have some fun of their own.

Groaning loudly, Mustang leaned back on one hand, still frowning a little, "My _point_ was," he ground out, eye still twitching a little in annoyance, "...it's not going to be easy, but I _will_ make Fuhrer someday. Even if I have to hold my own in a fistfight to do so."

Hawkeye nodded, mouth twitching in restrained amusement and pride. "Yes, General."

"Riza."

"...Yes, Roy."

Jean grinned, and he decided now would be a good time to bow out, before he was discovered-- or before this meeting took a turn that would break fraternization regs. He slipped back out the door, hands in his pockets to fish for a cigarette, and only allowed himself a wolf whistle when he was well out of the general's improved earshot.

There was no more need for surveillance.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


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